


On the Resourceful Nature of the Common Vampire

by 800dbcloud



Category: Dracula - Bram Stoker
Genre: Anal Sex, Blood Drinking, Blood Kink, Blood Loss, F/M, Hand Jobs, M/M, Master/Servant, Mildly Dubious Consent, Overstimulation, Vampire Bites, Vampire Blowjob, Vampire Sex, Vampire/Familiar Dynamic, canon-typical manipulation, dracula cant finger renfield because his talons would hurt so he just eats him out, he is also touch starved, i guess? like renfield very much wants it but the vampires don't bother to ask, please dont imagine canon grandpa rm renfield you will not like it, prettyboy renfield, renfield is bisexual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-19
Updated: 2021-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-28 16:21:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30142269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/800dbcloud/pseuds/800dbcloud
Summary: hello AO3 my name is 800dbcloud and heres some dracula porn. this will probably be the bulk of my content moving forward
Relationships: Brides of Dracula/R.M. Renfield, Dracula/R.M. Renfield
Kudos: 5





	On the Resourceful Nature of the Common Vampire

As the sole mortal resident of Castle Dracula, R.M. Renfield became quite attuned to the cycle of bloodlust that made the house tick. About once a week, the Count or one of his brides would bring home a kill—usually a large game animal—to be shared amongst the vampires.  
In the days between feedings, though, they could get antsy or even fearful. It was in times like these that Renfield was almost grateful he hadn’t yet been turned. Of course, he yearned to join Dracula and the brides in immortality, but he did not envy the uncertainty of their un-life. Vampires were not meant to live in such an isolated location as this, so far away from the blood they need to survive.

During a particularly long and worrisome lull in feeding, the familiar heard his Master’s call from the dining room. Though the command made Renfield’s heart sink in terror, he dared not refuse.   
As he made his way to the dining room, his addled brain began to conjure possibilities as to what the Count could want with him. Would he be punished for some wrongdoing? Why? How? Might he be rewarded? What for? Did the Master simply need something from him? Was the Master going to die?

Renfield entered the dining room to the sight of his Master, seated in one of his comfortable velvet chairs, looking older than he had in a while. Seated at his feet were his three Brides, looking quite the worse for wear themselves. They stared down the madman with a feral hunger he hadn’t seen in them before.  
Count Dracula always had a particular way with words— not so much in the choice of words themselves as their tone. His command to Renfield was simply “Kneel,” but the sound of the word seemed to send the madman’s very brain rattling about in its skull. Had Renfield tried to resist, he would have failed; but he had no reason to object. He did as he was told.

“Master, what will you have me do?” The words were automatic, spoken a thousand times before, as natural as asking for the time.   
“We need blood.” Renfield knew his Master was ancient, but he’d never heard Dracula sound so old.   
That was an odd reply. Not a command, but a statement. The familiar tried to discern its meaning. “Do you want me to hunt?”  
“I have spoken with my brides, and we have determined there is no need. You, Renfield, are living. You have blood. You will provide for us until further notice. Am I understood?”  
Renfield blinked in shock, wondering for a moment if his lunacy had finally gotten the better of his senses. The Master had told him time and time again that he would never stoop so low as to feed from his own familiar, that the thought of such sickly, vile blood sparked no feeling but disgust. But this was an emergency, wasn’t it? 

His purpose was to give his life to Dracula, and he could think of no better way than this. Renfield imagined it— All the vampires in the house, depending on him for survival. All of the vampires in the house, living on a part of him as inherent as his blood. Even now, the thought of them wanting him—anyone wanting him—for something he couldn’t change was enough to make his head spin. Unable to form words, the lunatic nodded slowly. 

“Excellent. Brides, you first.”

Renfield had always admired and envied the brides of his Master. They were intelligent, friendly, the most beautiful women he’d ever seen; and, most importantly of all, they could not die. They considered him enough of a friend to have introduced themselves to him by name— Esmerelda, Gertrude, and Alice, from tallest to shortest (though each was his height or taller). They’d always been keen on teasing him, toying with him, distracting him from his work. How many times had he been led off task by one of them petting his hair just to make his eyes roll back? How many times had he caught one of them looking him up and down like they wanted more than his blood? 

Now, as he saw their terrifying hunger and speed for the first time, he feared them. Renfield suddenly remembered that he’d never actually been bitten. For all his servitude and labor and adulation, he’d never actually been the prey of a vampire. He’d heard the victims’ screams, though, and those screams haunted him on quiet nights. 

“Wait, will it—”  
The lunatic had meant to ask, of course, if it would hurt; but was interrupted by Esmerelda’s razor-sharp fangs in his throat. To his surprise, it really didn’t hurt. In fact, it felt so utterly euphoric that he failed to suppress a choked moan or prevent his back from arching obscenely. His hands instinctively flew to the back of Esmerelda’s head, holding her in place as her lips and tongue worked at the bite wound. He heard Alice giggle with delight at his reaction. Gertrude was lurking just behind, and reached around to unbutton Renfield’s shirt, pressing a sweet, chaste kiss to the side of his neck opposite Esmerelda. 

Of course, he was not so far progressed into his madness that he failed to feel the pain and terror of having the very life drained from his body. In some distant, dreamlike part of his mind, Renfield was screaming in panicked agony; but he felt in his conscious mind that he couldn’t possibly be in danger. Men in this situation seldom were. 

Three pairs of cold, clawed hands wandered his body as though they’d been wanting to do so for ages. The familiar fought to keep still as the hands explored his gaunt, lanky physique. They brushed against his sides, up his chest, over his collarbones. They moved down his hips, over his thighs, came tantalizingly close to the button of his trousers. Despite his best efforts to retain every sensation he felt, his brain went foggy.   
The brides’ touch was soft, yet commanding in a way that made him feel utterly powerless. He often felt utterly powerless, of course. He’d enjoyed that feeling long before giving himself to Count Dracula, and it was part of what had endeared him to his Master. 

Renfield dimly registered Esmerelda’s pressing satisfied, grateful little kisses down the crook of his shoulder; then her hand against his cheek, turning his face; then her lips against his, soft and forceful. He could faintly taste his own blood in her mouth. 

How long had it been since someone had kissed him like that? How long had it been since someone had kissed him at all? It was such a simple action, merely the contact of two pairs of lips, but it was so unfamiliar to him that it brought tears to his eyes. Renfield hadn’t noticed how badly he needed to be kissed until now. As certain as he was that he hadn’t earned the affection, he couldn’t help but kiss back.   
Renfield was so enchanted by the tall, dark lady that he nearly forgot he wasn’t alone with her. Perhaps that was why Gertrude’s ravenous bite took him by surprise. He felt Esmerelda grin against his lips with amusement before slipping her tongue into his mouth.   
Gertrude was still kneeling behind her prey with her arms wrapped around his narrow torso. Renfield felt her nails dig into his skin with the intense desperation of feeding, as though she was trying to drink in his very soul along with his blood. The sting of her talons felt nearly as good as her bite, and the sensation sent him trembling with want.

At some point, the lunatic had moved to a sitting position with his knees apart and legs extended in front of him. Esmerelda briefly broke the kiss to straddle his hips, then took hold of his face and kissed him again. Renfield wouldn’t have known what to do with his hands even back when he was sane, but now he didn’t know what he was allowed to do with them. The brides were not his, after all, and what the Master might do if he got touchy was enough to frighten him out of it. Then again, he surely would have already objected, right…? Seeming to sense his uncertainty, Alice reached up to run her fingers through Renfield’s hair and whisper kind encouragement into his ear, but the poor familiar barely registered her words for the sensation of her touch.   
When the familiar still hesitated, Esmerelda took his trembling hands in hers and guided them straight to her soft, ample breasts. Between the fingers in his hair, the mouth ravishing his throat, and his hands’ new occupation, Renfield was nearly drunk on pleasure. He must have been quite a sorry sight then, he thought, with his mussed hair (though, to be fair, when wasn’t his hair mussed?) and exposed torso and kiss-swollen lips—not to mention the bite marks that adorned his neck and shoulders.

As soon as Gertrude had her fill, Alice tugged gently at the familiar’s hair to tip his head back—which sent a chill up his spine all by itself—and bit him so sweetly that his small cry of pleasure was two octaves too high. Esmerelda, still seated in his lap, had moved on from kissing him to holding his face in her hands, watching his every expression with something between lust and adoration. Renfield’s hands migrated from her chest to her hips, which left her bust to press flush against him. He’d always admired women’s thighs, and these were no exception. Despite himself, he couldn’t help but fondly imagine them locked around his head.

He wasn’t sure why it took him so long to notice—in fairness, they may have started just then— but the brides were talking to him, the way one might talk to a treasured pet. “Good boy,” they said. He wasn’t sure why that name made his heart flutter. “So handsome.” “So delicious.” “So obedient.” Their voices were soft and soothing, and made him want to curl up in their laps and let them talk him to sleep. 

Alice stayed mouthing at the bite wound she’d left on Renfield’s neck long after it quit bleeding, just to make him squirm, just to feel him arch his back. She knew he was mad, but had he truly never noticed how the brides looked at him? Did he refuse to believe that they found him ever so lovely? What a pity, if that was so. He had always been so beautiful to them; the way he blushed and turned away when they made eye contact, the way he reacted when they touched his hair. Even his shame was beautiful, bouncing off those bright blue eyes like starlight.

The familiar knew he shouldn’t have felt the way he did about how he was being treated, but that didn’t stop him. There was nothing truly sexual about vampiric feeding, and the prey was certainly not supposed to enjoy it, but his body worked against his mind. Here in the dining room, with three beautiful monsters all savoring him, R.M. Renfield felt more sane than he had in months. If he was ever to be granted the boon of immortality, he would be satisfied to live in this moment until the end of time.

The Master must have called off his brides, because each took one last little kiss and moved away, one by one. Renfield whined with the sudden loss of sensation, barely seeing Count Dracula approach for how dim and hazy his vision had grown. He noticed, however, when the ancient vampire took his familiar by the hands and pulled him gently to his feet.  
The Count supported his familiar’s small, limp frame with one hand on his shoulder and the other at the small of his back. Dracula’s gaze was always intense, as was his touch, but it rarely made Renfield’s head spin the way it did now. The Master’s voice was still tired and quiet, but it seemed to resonate through the ribcage of all who heard it. “You want them to fuck you, right?”   
Renfield had nearly forgotten that his Master could hear his thoughts, and lacked the willpower or desire to lie. He nodded vacantly, though the word fuck in his Master’s voice was enough to make him shudder.  
“I’ll keep that in mind. Remember that you do not belong to them, Renfield. You answer to me first. Do I make myself clear?”  
Count Dracula barely gave his familiar time to nod in response before his fangs pierced the lunatic’s throat. Any verbal answer he might have given was replaced with the loudest, most desperate moan he’d produced all evening. The hand that had been on Renfield’s shoulder was now gripping the back of his head. Instinctively, his hands slid up to his Master’s back, balling in the fabric of his shirt. The vampire, naturally, was stronger, and pulled his familiar close with force that would be terrifying if Renfield weren’t so thrilled by it. As it was, the two of them were pressed flush together, both trying desperately to pull the other impossibly closer, to occupy the same space, to become one.

As a symptom of his lunacy (though his current lightheaded state certainly didn’t help), R.M. Renfield was prone to lapses in memory. He could not recall how either he or his Master made it into a guest room. That, however, was where he found himself next; with the cold stone of the wall digging into his back, and the Count pinning him in place, still drinking him in with all the proud desperation of a successful predator. Renfield could hear—and feel—his Master growling into his neck with animalistic bloodthirst, devouring his very essence. The vibrations against his sensitive flesh made the familiar writhe and whimper with arousal.  
Vampires were almost never messy eaters, but when Dracula finally pulled away, he had to wipe a drop of Renfield’s blood away from the corner of his mouth. The sight made the familiar’s stomach do backflips. His Master was back to his old self, looking young and healthy and handsome as ever, all thanks to him. He hadn’t even needed to put forth any effort. For the first time he could remember, R.M. Renfield was enough.

Renfield and Dracula froze for a moment, gazing intensely into each other’s eyes. Both noticed the other’s dilated pupils, but only Renfield was blushing. The Count seemed to move automatically as he leaned in, as though kissing his familiar right now was the only reasonable course of action.   
The madman, uncharacteristically, did not hesitate to kiss his Master back. Perhaps he grabbed Dracula by the face and pulled him in closer because the blood loss had lowered his inhibitions, or perhaps his intuition told him that this conduct was acceptable. Either way, Renfield kissed like he needed it as badly as the vampires needed blood. In truth, he did, and a sob escaped his throat; though he couldn’t say exactly what emotion it was that moved him to tears. Joy? Relief? Sadness? It felt like he’d been waiting for something, though he could never say what, for his entire life; but now he knew it had always been this. Dracula broke the kiss, making no acknowledgement of what he’d just done.

“Thank you, Renfield. You have done well. I ought to reward you.” As he spoke, the Count lifted his familiar into a bridal carry and set him gently onto the bed, letting him lean against the pillows so he was nearly upright.  
Renfield’s heart pounded with something between arousal and panic. Reward? In the bed? With the Master? Surely he was dreaming, or hallucinating, or both. Surely he was being presumptuous. Dracula would never do such a thing with him.  
The Count loomed over his familiar, looking him up and down with satisfaction and craving in equal measure. A cold hand reached down to caress the marks that littered his body. Renfield gasped as Dracula’s thumb brushed against his nipple, and the vampire’s delighted chuckle was somehow both soft and booming.   
The madman hadn’t noticed his own half-erection until his Master’s hands undid the button of his trousers, and the scarce contact made his hips buck with need. “Patience,” the Count nearly whispered. 

The cold of Dracula’s skin against his cock made Renfield twitch, and every stroke of his Master’s hand sent chills down his spine. He arched into the touch despite himself, but the Count didn’t seem to take it as insolence; instead gazing at his familiar with a small, pleased grin before leaning down to take the lunatic’s cock, now fully hard, into his mouth.   
Renfield’s strangled cry was one of both weak protest—as he now knew firsthand how sharp his Master’s teeth were— and pleasure. His hands instinctively moved to cover his face in embarrassment as Dracula’s clawed hands held his thighs apart. The vampire’s mouth was surprisingly hot and wet. He actually had to lay an arm across Renfield’s abdomen to keep his hips from bucking too wildly. Sure enough, the slight danger of fangs was thrilling to him, though the Count’s teeth never pricked his flesh.   
Dracula broke away from sucking off his familiar for a moment, planting a sweet kiss to the inside of Renfield’s thigh, before moving down. His tongue—as hot and wet as the rest of his mouth—prodded at the madman’s ass, pushed its way in. The familiar openly keened— his Master’s tongue was long, and explored him with seemingly a mind of its own.

Renfield’s second lapse in memory that night was his failure to recall what exactly happened between Dracula eating him out and beginning to properly fuck him. Somehow or another, though, his Master disrobed and lined up his already-hard cock with his familiar’s ass. The Count’s body took his familiar’s breath away. His figure was reminiscent of the statues he’d seen of Greek and Roman deities— perhaps one of Hermes or Dionysus.  
At the back of Renfield’s mind, he couldn’t help feeling like he shouldn’t have been doing this, like he was committing some treason by being there. But his Master was initiating it, right?  
Dracula took both of his familiar’s wrists in one strong hand and pinned them over his head. The reason for such restraint made itself clear as the vampire began to slowly push forward. Overwhelmed already with sensation, Renfield strained against his Master’s hold on his hands, though what he intended to do with them he couldn’t say.   
The familiar had felt like crying, for various reasons, for much of the evening. Now, he found himself tempted to shed tears of joy. His Master was so generous, he thought as the vampire’s length passed his prostate. His Master was so selfless, he thought as a cold hand grabbed at his waist for leverage. His Master was so kind, he thought, to fuck him— such a wretched, ugly little thing like him— so sweetly. He almost felt as though he didn’t deserve such kind treatment. He hadn’t done anything to earn it. 

Though Count Dracula’s skin was cold, his every touch left Renfield burning. His thrusts, small and gentle at the moment, were already beginning to wind a coil at the pit of the lunatic’s stomach. Renfield was trying—to little avail—to hide his face in the crook of his own shoulder. Maybe, if he didn’t look at his Master, he wouldn’t disappoint him. The thought of disappointing him was almost as mortifying as the thought of pleasing him. What would he do if Dracula saw his pathetic expression and watery eyes and liked it?

The Count, for his part, was pleasantly surprised by his familiar’s hot tightness. For the moment, he was perfectly in control, but he didn’t predict any future difficulty with working himself over. He found himself greatly endeared by Renfield’s futile attempts to hide his own moans. Try as he might, the poor madman couldn’t keep quiet to save his life— a microcosm, Dracula thought, of their working relationship. 

Between the brides’ earlier teasing and his current predicament, Renfield knew he wasn’t going to last much longer. He tried to stammer some warning to his Master, but couldn’t find the words in his pleasure-clouded brain. What came out was a high, broken whine, vaguely resembling the words “please” and “close.” Dracula, however, understood perfectly, and picked up the pace; grabbing both the familiar’s thighs for leverage. When the lunatic didn’t know what to do with his newly freed hands, his Master gave him a simple, two-word command: “Touch yourself.”  
Renfield’s trembling hands set to work on his cock, the wet, obscene sounds nearly drowning out his incessant whimpering. The vampire peered down at him with those hypnotizing eyes. The familiar wasn’t particularly verbal, apart from an occasional cry of “Master.”  
“Do you want to come?” Dracula’s voice was as soft and deep as the sea, with a hint of amusement.   
Renfield nodded frantically, blabbering a string of incoherent pleas: “Yes yes please please please Master fuck please make me come,” he said. He was already too close to go back anyhow, but he pled nonetheless.  
The vampire smiled at his familiar’s obedience. “Come for me,” he commanded.  
The lunatic half-sobbed as he went over the edge, splattering his chest and stomach with fluids. His back stayed arched for a moment after as he heaved for breath. When he finally collapsed, Dracula gave him only a brief moment to recover before pulling out and resuming with the orders. 

“You’ve done well, Renfield. I’ll let you finish me off, hm?”  
His Master’s words rang through his exhaustion as clear as a bell, and Renfield was immediately kneeling before Dracula’s cock. He took it dutifully into his mouth, earning a slow exhale from the vampire that sent butterflies whirling around in the familiar’s stomach.   
The madman nearly fainted when he felt his Master tug gently at his hair, and the moan that escaped him made the vampire hiss softly from its vibration. Dracula, much less considerate all of a sudden, didn’t hesitate to thrust gently into his familiar’s mouth. Renfield fortunately didn’t have much of a gag reflex, so it didn’t pose much of an issue besides miraculously starting to get him hard again. This, really, was the ideal situation for him— not having to guess what Dracula wanted, not having to worry about doing it wrong, just opening his mouth and letting his Master fuck it. He was a meal before, and he was a hole now.  
Renfield gazed adoringly up at Dracula, whose eyes were shut with pleasure. The vampire huffed and cursed under his breath, tightening his grip in his familiar’s hair. “Good boy,” he panted. “So fucking good.” Renfield whimpered just at those words.  
Chasing his high, Count Dracula deepened his thrusts and quickened their pace. Renfield found himself craving his Master’s cum, as though it was a communion as sacred as his blood. Both were life, after all. The vampire finished straight down his familiar’s throat with a low growl. The lunatic swallowed what he was given.

Renfield found himself in a sort of lightheaded trance, halfway between consciousness and sleep. He heard his Master's voice as though it was echoing through a tunnel.  
"Please him as you like, but no biting. He's lost an awful lot of blood tonight, and we don't know how long it'll be before we can find another kill."

The next thing he knew, the familiar was surrounded on all sides by the brides' soft bodies and cold hands. They kept kissing and touching, relishing his warmth. He moaned softly as someone's hand moved down to wrap around his cock, stroking much too slowly for his liking. Someone else tugged him into a deep kiss that still tasted like blood. Renfield lacked the strength to properly kiss back, but he did whine with pathetic dissatisfaction, rocking his hips weakly, seeking more friction.   
Almost as soon as the hand at his erection picked up the pace, the familiar was panting softly, pleading without words. His orgasm was weak and shuddering, but the brides pushed him further. 

Something wet and hot enveloped him then, but his vision was too hazy to tell if it was a mouth or something else. A pair of hands began to tease his nipples, sending a chill up his spine. Someone was kissing his neck. Renfield writhed restlessly, unable to make sense of all the sensation around him. He distantly heard himself whimpering. The familiar came again with a high, choked cry.  
The brides were talking to him again. "Good boy." "I think he can do another." "So warm." Another hand began to stroke his cock, but this one was much more satisfying in speed and pressure. Renfield fell limp into someone's arms, and they held him close as he gasped and moaned. The lunatic's hips bucked in rhythm with the touch until he came so hard he fainted for a brief moment.

Renfield found himself nestled between two large, soft breasts, swallowing down blood from a small incision between them. He looked up to see Esmerelda cupping his face sweetly, though his eyesight was still blurry. Her blood, surprisingly, was hot and sweet. He felt energy course through him with every gulp he took. She pulled him away from her chest and into a soft, hungry kiss, tasting her life on his tongue. He still wasn't all there, but he was present enough to keep going.  
From there, the familiar and the brides lost count of how many times they'd made him finish. He was lost in a hot, sticky haze for the rest of the evening, all clouded with hands and mouths. Even as his climaxes grew strained and writhing, they kept testing him. "Just one more." "You can do it." "Come one more time."

As he lay half-asleep among the resting vampires, Renfield wondered what this night would mean. Had the vampires always loved him? Would they keep loving him? Did his Master love him? Had he finally earned the privilege of eternal life? In the absence of answers, he fell asleep just as day broke.


End file.
